The espalier | Project Gutenberg

This is a public park;

You may not pick the flowers,

Or loiter after hours,

Or kiss too deep in the dark.

Yet here is green, and sweet

Forgetfulness of the street;

Deep walks of chestnut and lime

Where the old may pass away time,

Pleasant picnicing places

For children with shabby faces,

Lawns blowing in the sun

Where dogs may roll and run,

And the patient grass

For lover and lass.

Is this then not enough?

No, not enough for one

I met there.

Who?

A nun.

(And yet, God knows, so old,

So battered with untold

Heavenly housewifery,

So vowed to poverty,

You would not think to find

Ambition in her mind.)

In wintry woollen stuff

Of abstinence was she dressed,

And winter was on her breast;

But midsummer’s most complete

Honey-coloured, honey-sweet

Plenteousness was her plunder,

Standing the lime-tree under.

No housewife shelling peas,

No Saint upon her knees

Telling God’s praises over,

Slip-finger, nor bees in clover,

Nor girl-child gathering

Cowslips in the spring

Showed with more innocence

Delight in diligence

Than she, cramming her bag

With golden handfuls of swag.

Love knit my heart to her:

I approached; but at the stir

Of footfall she glanced round,

Loosed her rich branch, and frowned

With such an air of doubt

As children show found out

In fault, till seeing that I

Smiled, she in turn looked sly

And faster than before

Plucked on. Said I: ‘Here’s more

Than you can lessen, though you

Should gather the whole day through

For your lime-blossom tea.’

‘It is God’s gift,’ said she,

‘And pleasant for the sick.

It grows so clean and thick

’Twere shame to let it waste.

Aye, gathered it should be.

But I must work in haste

Lest the Keeper come along

And tell me I do wrong.’

I looked up overhead

And saw the lime-tree spread

Above us like a tent;

Like a green and golden pavilion

Of some Arabian Night,

Murmuring as with consent,

And gleaming as though alight

With a million, with a million

Loops and tassels of scent.

I thought then: Who could grudge

Blooms to this holy drudge,

Or stay her wrinkled, deft

Old hands from their kind theft?

She thief, lawbreaker? She?

As well accuse the tree,

That day-long with sweet skill

Steals sap, steals chlorophyl;

That from earth, from dew, from air

Thieves that it may be fair

And show its works to men,

Who beholding it then

May glorify their Father

In heaven.

No, but look farther.

I touch not blossom nor leaf,

And I, I am the Thief!

Thief so cunning and fell

That I am Keeper as well.

Good cause had she to frown

At my shadow blackening down;

For every joy I take

Becomes an iron grate,

And my innocent delights

Plant rows of iron spikes;

Worst, self-denying, this trick

Of integrity—not to pick

Blossom, bruise leaf, destroy

Aught from the common joy—

Binds in an iron band

My heart and prompts my hand,

Now lifted up to bless

In scrupulous emptiness,

To write these words of hate

Thou shalt not on every gate.

Yet here is solace, and sweet

Redemption from the street;

A pause, a look of pity

For the begrimed city,

Green almsgiving, a lake

Of green where men may slake

Parched senses, wash off care.

Ah, if it only were

Not so precious, so deadly dear,

So dearly defrayed a delight

That whosoever comes here

Must come as Thief outright,

Or cloaking his envious mind

With love of humankind,

And with caution and mistrust

Walking among the just

Grow Thief so cunning and fell

That perforce he’s Keeper as well.

Poor drudge, you had reason to start,

When with love in my heart

I approached you, as though you saw

In me the offended law.

Truly, to-day I must be

Offended because of thee.

For every blossom you pick

Must wound me to the quick,

And by that bag you’ve crammed

With mercies I am damned;

Worst, worst, your innocence,

Your happy, happy love,

Your hand, so hand in glove

With the tree’s consenting,

Is a sword to drive me hence,

Lamenting, lamenting;

Is a flame brandished to fright

Me from a forfeited delight,

Repenting, repenting;

Is a key in the unrelenting

Hand of the uncreate,

Locking the garden gate.

O why must my spirit pine

For a few handfuls of lime

Plucked by a poor old nun,

Whose cares are all in one

Concern so summed up and shriven

That were I to tell her but half

Of the coil through which she’s driven

My thoughts, she must either laugh

As a nurse laughs at a child,

Or with a sigh, maybe a frown

For one so devil-wiled,

Brush all my vain-wit down?

And yet I linger, I delay,

Hankering, as though some clue

She had hold of, answer knew.

As though, should I say:

‘No, dear, you may not pick

Lime-blossom for the sick;

For know you not, since the Fall

Not one tree, but all, all

Must bear forbidden fruit,

And are poisoned at the root

By man’s repentant tears?’—

She might reply: ‘Yet here’s

Good warrant for what I do.

When he was walking through

The harvest he plucked the ears

Of corn and shared them among

Those with him, for they were an hungered, and so was he.

Thus his disciples he taught

How to steal as they ought,

In joy and peace of heart;

Thus he took the sinner’s part;

So much to thieves a friend

That he had them with him till the end;

Thus, thus, he would set us free.

But till everyone believes

In him we must all be thieves.’

THE VIRGIN AND THE SCALES